Flames of Awakening: Faemoch Cycle Book 1

by Reynolds, Michael

  "That stupid brute? He will slow the wits of the bard and make his companions appear inept. That's the best that he could do. It will be most magnificent! Wait and see, old lover. Wait and see."

  Bergar opened his eyes to see his own body sprawled across the room. Jaxius was between Tolian and his body, sobbing. All new pains erupted throughout his consciousness. He had at least two broken ribs, and his nose was splayed across his face. But he was alive, of a sort.

  Chapter Twelve

  Aportus was usually grateful for the soft leather pads at the bottoms of his servant shoes. They allowed him to come and go silently while fulfilling his master's many demands. At this particular time, he experienced an unfortunate byproduct of that trained silence. Obedient to the end, however, he simply smoothed his black jerkin and inspected his sleeves closely as he patiently waited. He dared not make even the slightest noise. His master was known to sometimes ignore a waiting servant for over a candle-mark while he worked through some issue or another.

  Lesser servants would attempt to politely clear their throats or even speak their presence, but not Aportus. He would never dream of insulting his master so. That is why he had outlived many of his master's servants. Not that he didn't have ambition. Quite the contrary. He was perhaps the most ambitious of all the servants in the manor house. Maybe even the world. Aportus knew the secrets to being the best servant possible. All of his painfully learned lessons boiled down to one simple maxim: know your master better than you know yourself.

  And Aportus knew his master. He knew that his master was a creature of extreme habit. He knew that his master was ludicrously powerful. He knew every taste that his master craved and every smell that he loved. He could tell his master's mood before his master moved or said anything. He had known for some time that his master may one day rule the known world. He knew that to interrupt even his master's thoughts was worthy of death. But what he did not know was what his master looked like.

  He had never seen his master's face. Or hands. Or any other part of his master's flesh. During every encounter with the man, Aportus only saw him in shadow and fully covered from head to toe with blackest of black silks or ebony leather.

  Aportus had almost always considered himself to be the very best servant that anyone could find in all the empires of the world. His lot had not always been as spectacular as it was now. Shortly after his tutelage finished, he was forced to settle for a house of an almost unacceptably low station. The portly matriarch was petty and spiteful. The patriarch was a slovenly ingrate. Even their children learned to complain before they ever learned to walk. They considered Aportus, himself, one of the common slaves of the home, even though he was technically free to come and go as he desired. When he was paid, it was usually much less than the pittance they had agreed upon. For years, this went on. Aportus had absolutely loathed his life.

  Then, everything changed. His current master had come to his bedchambers in the dead of night and offered him wealth beyond measure for his servitude. Aportus quickly agreed. Surely, anything would be better than the insulting conditions that he was forced to endure day in and day out. And so, he laughed to himself as he packed his things, listening to the death cries of his former employers.

  And so he found himself standing patiently and silently waiting to learn the orders that his newest master would have for him. He would remain like this for as long as his employer deemed necessary. He did not abide because his master paid him precisely on time as arranged. Nor did he wait because the amount that he was paid made him, in fact, more wealthy than most lords and ladies of the land. Not even out of fear did he wait. No, he remained because he respected his master, and to respect one's master meant that you simply did what was asked of you, no matter how difficult.

  "Ah, I see you are here. Good," his master said, not even turning to face Aportus. "I would like for you to prepare and deliver a message for me. I want every member of our little council to arrive at the circle of stones at Pecua in precisely three weeks. We have much to discuss. Be sure to impress upon them the importance of punctuality for this meeting. I do so hate having to wait."

  Aportus nodded. He turned and took several steps toward the door.

  "Oh, and have someone come and clean this mess."

  Aportus turned and noticed the speckles of glass glinting brightly on the carpeted floor where the master's ornate mirror had been.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I would hate for anyone to get ... hurt."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bergar slowly pushed up from the ground. Tolian's elbows quaked with the effort. He pulled his legs underneath himself, just enough to rest on all fours. He groaned heavily at the pain.

  Jaxius snapped around, viortassi in hand.

  "You live! Oh, by the gods! You live." He jumped up, rushing to help Tolian into a more comfortable seated position. "I feared you were dead, as well. It looks like we were too late to save him, Tolian. I had him within my grasp. I just ..."

  "It's alright, ye tried," Bergar said with Tolian's voice. He faltered. This inhabiting a much different body was bizarre. His voice was not his voice; his weight was not his weight. The only lucky part in all of this was that he and Tolian were of an equal height. But their builds were completely different.

  "Trying is not good enough," Jaxius said. He was only able to momentarily interrupt Bergar's rushing thoughts.

  The displaced barbarian lifted a hand and moved it around, looking at the fine fingers covered in stone dust and tiny scrapes. These hands would never be able to hold a hammer the way that he had in his young, virile body. His eyes trailed a line from his hands to his dainty wrists, and he wondered how Tolian had ever lived this long. Bergar wagered that Tolian may have never successfully seen a full day's hard work.

  "Can you stand? We should get back to Grundar before anything else happens." Jaxius asked.

  "I ... um, I don't know." Bergar gingerly tried to stand. After much straining and Jaxius' help, Bergar managed to rise.

  "Alright, good," Jaxius. "Let's get out of here and back to Grundar. He will want this news of his beloved son."

  "Right, his son," Bergar said. Hearing Tolian's voice reminded him all over again that he had failed to survive. He was too weak to push on and was only here by the sadistic will of a dark and unworthy goddess. Also, it reminded him that to everyone else he appeared to be Tolian. Shame at that thought set in. He slowly realized that his life would never be the same. His people would not accept that he was Bergar, son of the great Grundar. His people would not even accept that he was any kind of warrior. Where would he go? Asking himself that one simple question opened a floodgate of other unanswered questions. Where was Tolian in this body? What did The Unworthy Witch mean by "share?" What would his father say when he found out? How would Jaxius react to this? There was only one way to find out.

  "Jaxius," Bergar said.

  "Yes?"

  "Well, this is diff... never mind." At length, Bergar decided to keep his awkward condition to himself.

  "What about his, um ... body?" Bergar asked, attempting to imitate Tolian's speech.

  "We'll have to take it with us. Grundar will appreciate giving Bergar's soul his due rest. Carefully though. No way of knowing what the witch did and how well the body might hold. Help me look for some kind of blanket to wrap him in and keep a wary eye open for anyone coming."

  Bergar rummaged through the room and found nothing that even remotely fit the description of a blanket. He slipped into the stairwell and passed the bodies sprawled out in their own blood. Seeing the carnage reminded him that Jaxius and Tolian had risked everything to save him. He had complicated it all by not living through their rescue, and made it even more complicated by his choice to enter into Tolian's body.

  He continued down and around the winding stairs until he found a door leading into the center of the tower. He tried the handle. Locked. He listened for a moment to make sure that no one was on the other side. He then kicked the heavy door
with all his strength. The door stood solid, silently mocking his feeble attempt. Another reminder that he was no longer in his original vessel. Bergar knew that with his own body, he would have been able to knock the door from its hinges, but in his new, shared body, he barely scuffed the wood.

  Bergar wondered how Tolian ever made it so long in this weak husk of a body.

  That was less than fruitful, friend, a voice said in Bergar's head.

  "Who's there?" Bergar panicked.

  First, I would like for you to understand that I am where I am supposed to be. But where I reside is not really where you are supposed to be. I have been watching you. And if you insist on traipsing around in my gloriously healthy and gorgeous body, I think you owe me an explanation.

  "Tolian?" Bergar asked.

  Your genius astounds me.

  "Look, you don't have to be so high 'n mighty."

  Apologies. I am simply not used to having my body stolen by another person. Especially one who I have just arrived to rescue from that Hawklos witch. Now, if you don't mind, I would dearly love to hear the story of how you came into possession of such a fine and well groomed spectacle of a body.

  Bergar, speaking aloud, explained his entire after-death experience. He spared no detail, thinking it best to come clean with the man whose body he stole.

  That is quite an interesting story. Amazing really. Now, the question before us is can it be reversed? And, if so, how, exactly? I simply cannot let you sully my good name with your gawky fumbling around in my body. I am a trained dancer, orator, singer, musician, and artist. Carriage and grace are my livelihood.

  "I'm as unhappy about this as you are. Remember, I'm the one whose body is dead. That's what I'm doing down here. Lookin' for a rug or somethin' to carry myself off in."

  Looking. G. G. Looking. You must learn to speak properly. Please, I beg of you. If I could use my hands for a moment? I could help you open the door, but I can't force the muscles to work without your assistance. Oh, and one more thing, I can hear your thoughts. You do not have to vocalize everything to me.

  "Sorry. I just think I'd feel a bit crazy havin' thoughts that answer themselves."

  And speaking one side of a conversation out loud does not give you that very same feeling?

  "Right. Good point." Bergar felt a bit embarrassed.

  Anyway, let's see if we can't get that door open. Feel in the small pocket located in the cuff of my left sleeve. You feel those thin strips of metal? Remove those, if you would. There should be three of them.

  Bergar felt around, finally pulling the black pieces of metal out of his sleeve. Each was thin and crooked in various ways. He eyed them suspiciously, starting to question Tolian's trustworthiness. He wondered if these were really what he thought they were.

  Yes, they are. Being a traveling storyteller requires that you get information. Sometimes that information isn't shared outside of locked doors. So I have, on occasion, removed the tongue's barrier. I do not just traipse, uninvited, into any house that I please. That would be wrong.

  Suren' the ones what invite you have the least interesting stories, Bergar thought.

  Truer words may have never been uttered. Now back to business, before another of that witch's guards comes in to check on things. Put the metal pieces into the keyhole. One at a time. I want you to feel for the tumblers. They will feel like little pieces protruding into the empty space. If you wiggle and jiggle just so, the door will open as if by magic.

  Tolian walked Bergar through picking the lock. After quite some time, Bergar felt the lock to the door click open. Bergar chuckled quietly to himself. He never thought he would do that in his life.

  Technically, you didn't. Remember?

  Aw, why'd you have to be reminding me?

  Bergar turned the now unlocked handle and pushed open the door. He couldn't see more than a few feet into the room. He seized a torch from the wall and walked in. A large assortment of variously sized and shaped skulls, mirrors, and candles decorated the small bedroom. A rich looking wash basin sat next to the door collecting cobwebs and gray dust. A darkly ornate wardrobe on the wall opposite the door stood open, revealing a selection of clothing that was pitifully drab compared to the rest of the room. The witch's bed was even more ostentatious than the wardrobe. The pretentious gold-leafed four poster bed covered much of the left side of the room. It was almost comical to think that such a shrinking, wicked and ancient hag needed such a large bed.

  Blanket, right?

  Bergar jumped a bit at the disembodied thought. He stalked to the bed, grabbed hold of the blanket with his free hand, and tore it free.

  Alright, let's go. I do not like it in here. I have that ominous feeling like we are being watched. I've noticed that those types of feelings are a touch stronger when one doesn't have the comfort of focusing on something else. Like one's heartbeat. Or one's breathing. Also, Bergar, breathe through your nose, I implore you. It is easier and much more polite.

  Bergar felt the need to get out of Tolian's body more keenly with every passing second.

  We will extricate you, my friend. I swear it. In the meantime, don't you think we need to rendezvous with Jaxius.

  "Yeah," Bergar spoke aloud again.

  You will have to confess all to him, you know.

  "Surely we can tell him later."

  "Tell who what?" Jaxius' voice cut through the brooding silence.

  Bergar, startled, dropped the flaming torch to the floor. He snatched it up, afraid that it might catch something on fire.

  "Nothing, no one. We can talk later," Bergar said.

  "I can't find a way out. So we will have to go out the same way we came in."

  "Right. The … um ... way we came ..."

  Through the window. We climbed in through the window. Fifteen feet up or so.

  "You aren't worried about the fall are you? You don't think it might be too far?" Bergar hesitantly asked.

  "Am I hearing the great Tolian right? The man who tumbled his way down the sheer side of a mighty cliff without so much as tousling his hair? You? Scared of a tiny little fifteen-foot drop? With a spear as a hand hold halfway down too?"

  "Eh? No, I was just worried about you. That's all. Oh, and Bergar's body. Here's the blanket by the way." Bergar wanted to deflect the conversation away from anything having to do with Tolian's memories.

  Unbelievable.

  Shut up, Bergar thought.

  "Good. Let's get back upstairs and then away out of here."

  The two men climbed back up the stairs and bent to the task of wrapping Bergar's lifeless body in the brocaded blanket. The pair then began the awkward descent to the waiting window. Bergar let Jaxius lead the way, not wanting to let on that he had no idea where he was going.

  His cadaverous body was much heavier than he thought it should be. By the time they reached the window, Bergar was straining to keep his grip on the blanket.

  Jaxius peered out the window and ducked back inside.

  "New problem," Jaxius said somewhere between mouthing and whispering.

  Bergar moved to the window and looked out, curious what else could possibly go wrong.

  Most of the raider camp was assembled below the window, circled around his father.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "How many?" Jaxius asked.

  "No less than 30," Bergar said. He did not like the odds, particularly because of his predicament. Besides the fact that his muscles seemed comparable to that of an adolescent, his weapons were intended for cooking, not fighting.

  Jaxius asked,"You think they'll scare easy?"

  No. Not easily. They are a fiercely loyal people from what I have heard. Tolian's voice said to Bergar.

  "No. Not easily. They are … um ... fiercely loyal people. From what I heard, that is." The clumsy-tongued barbarian stumbled over Tolian's words.

  "You took a pretty nasty fall up there. Are you sure you're alright?"

  "Yeah. I am fine. Never better." Bergar tried to mimic Tolian's laug
h, failing miserably.

  "Right," Jaxius said. "How are we going to get out of this one, old friend? Surely, you have some trick or another up your sleeve. Because I am all out."

  All out, Bergar thought. He tried to force his mind to see their situation from a different angle. He was not used to making decisions or planning. The best he had ever really offered his father was sarcastic remarks and childishness. How could he hope to come up with a plan to save his father while descending fifteen feet down the side of a tower? All the while making it appear that he wasn't who he really was.

  We are going to need to change the way you think. This is less than productive. I can't even focus on coming up with a plan to get us out of this with you wallowing in here. So, either help or quit thinking.

  You shut up. I am sick of you talking at me like that.

  Look, you are the one doing the invading. Do I really need to remind you that I have enjoyed this body for longer than you were alive?

  The last insult cut Bergar a little more deeply than Tolian intended. Bergar's shoulders slumped, and his eyes glassed over. Of course, Tolian would remind him of the fact that his life was beyond over. That this was all his fault.

  I didn't mean it that way, Bergar. Maybe we can work together to figure this out. I mean we do kind of have an advantage that other people don't have. So let's talk this out.

  * * *

  Grundar growled each time one of the barbarians came closer than he found comfortable. His thick black beard glistened as his sweat started to freeze.

  "Well, northern cur, what game are you playing at?" the leader of the camp asked again.

  "No game," Bergar said. "I tol' ye. Let me boy go. An' I ain't fer breakin' the bones in yer legs and lettin' the wild dogs eat ya."

  The brutish camp leader lurched forward and backhanded Grundar across the face. Blood and spit splashed out across the snow.

  "There are more of you than you're saying." The angry man eyed the short-spear stuck into the tower wall curiously.

  "Nope. Jes' me. Aimed to climb to and through th' window and git me boy," Grundar said. "Oh, and kill as many of ye inbred goat molesters as I could on me way out."